The sowing machine, millstones and power
seek no passage to the borders of grace
rather than be the darkness on the horizon’s face,
and hide my pain, I’ll choose the abyss this time.
Having overcome my spirit and its pride,
the seed of vengeance I sow like an old rite;
since what came before has grown stale, for you I’ll cast aside
the good that was turning into a poisonous bite.
So, burn my world or drown it in tears;
transfer your order and law into the heart.
With a scrap of paper, let that old consciousness be laid to rest
or, by all means create something new